


the possibility of the impossible

by seinmit



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dubious Consent, Erik Killmonger Lives, Implied Mpreg, Interfering Goddesses, M/M, One Old-Fashioned Racial Slur, Or Possibly Metaphorical Mpreg, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 14:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20211373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: The goddess Bast takes a personal interest in the future of Wakanda. She thinks that Erik and T’Challa each have something to add.





	the possibility of the impossible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).

> Thanks for the amazing song, opheliahyde. I've been listening to it on repeat. 
> 
> Based on [Big God by Florence + The Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_kIrRooQwuk).
> 
> Title from Frantz Fanon. Thanks to you-know-who for her excellent guidance.
> 
> Warning: Erik uses an old-fashioned racial slur to describe himself, once.

_He who is reluctant to recognize me opposes me. In a savage struggle I am willing to accept convulsions of death, invincible dissolution, but also the possibility of the impossible._ \- Frantz Fanon

Song eased into the edges of Erik’s consciousness, filling him with rattles, flutes, and human voices. There was a parade of people passing and that was all Erik could hear; he could not understand the words they sang. Their joyful cacophony was the only thing in the world. 

The sunset over Wakandan hills was burned into the blackened behind of his eyelids and when he opened his eyes, the light had the same red fire. Women were dancing, hands raised and clapping, men were dipping their shoulders and swirling around them. The landscape was curiously empty and flat. He could not focus on any individual face and was only able to see them as an interconnected assemblage, with no internal structure.

He watched them pass, fascinated. They disappeared into a grove of tall trees that he had not noticed at all until they reached it. The noises of celebration vanished as if swallowed by a great beast. The grove was shadowed and hidden, the warm light of sunset transforming into twilight. 

Erik rose. He was compelled to follow. His body felt light and new, without any of the aches and pains he had become habituated to from years of brutal physical exertion. 

At first, the grove seemed far away, but he reached it in a few easy breaths. He stepped between the trees and continued to walk forward. He stepped around a bend and suddenly a giant, intimidating statue of a black panther seated on her hind legs rose up before him. It was several stories high and yet somehow the trees seemed to grow to top it; it was made of a gleaming stone, impossibly black. Basalt, maybe. He wasn’t a geologist. 

He whistled. It was impossible not to be impressed. 

“Is that the way you greet a lady?” said an amused, lightly accented voice. “Much less your _goddess_.” 

Out from behind the statue stepped a tall woman, skin as dark as the statue’s and hair rising up in a glorious penumbra around her head. It was like a lion’s mane. She was smiling at him in a knowing way that usually drove Erik crazy, but he remained calm. Normal women looked like they knew everything, but they didn’t; he was pretty sure this one did. 

“I’m not one for ceremony,” Erik said. “Last time I was involved in this wacky motherland bullshit, I ended up dead.” 

He paused and considered. “I’m probably still dead, aren’t I?” 

She laughed at him. He hated being laughed at usually, but now he just smiled back. 

“N’Jadaka—”

He cut her off. 

“Erik,” he said. “My mama named me Erik.”

His daddy named him N’Jadaka, but looking at this woman and her Black feminine power, he felt like this was his mother’s place even if she was a Wakandan goddess. 

She inclined her head, graceful. 

“You named yourself ‘Killmonger.’ Which one is it going to be, child?” She sounded only idly curious, as if it didn’t matter to her. It probably didn’t. 

“Who cares?” he said. “I’m dead.” 

She hummed a little and it filled him in the same inexorable way as the parade did before, even though it was casual and offhand. 

“Are you?” she said.

* * *

He woke up in cuffs, with the gentle chirrup of a monitor in the background. He was in pain—his chest ached, his stomach ached, his whole body ached. It felt like a knife had been dragged slowly through his guts. Of course, it had. 

He wasn’t hurt too much to yell. 

“T’Challa, you _bitch-ass motherfucker,_ you piece of shit,” he yelled. He thrashed in his chains, the chains he wasn’t ever going to tolerate again. “Come here and look me in the eye, motherfucka, come here and tell me why you played me like this.” 

Nobody came right away, but Erik kept yelling. 

Shuri came in. She looked scornful, and knowing, and that was exactly the look he hated on a woman. He leaned as far over the edge of the bed as he could and spat toward her feet.

“Oh, charming,” she said. “This is how you thank the woman who saved your life?”

“_Fuck_ you,” he said. “I told your fucking brother that I wanted to be let die.”

She came closer to the bed with no fear and that’s how he knew he wasn’t going to get out of these cuffs. She pressed a button that caused a hissing sound of fluid to disperse through his IV.

“You should know better than most, N’Jadaka. You can’t always get what you want.”

* * *

He was still breathing hard when he woke back up in the twilight-laced grove. The woman was seated at the base of the statue, ankles delicately crossed. Waiting for him. 

Erik scrambled to his feet. 

“Fuck,” he said, with feeling. “These all-knowing motherfuckas. _Christ._ They’re worse than the fucking military. If this is what happens to the Black man when he ain’t got everything against him—”

“Stop, Erik,” she said. His voice vanished in his throat. 

He glared, trying to imbue his eyes with every bit of the rage that he felt. 

“You are too loud,” she said. “Do you think that you can say all the things you kept back before? That now, if you fill everything with rage and violence and retribution, it will allow you to forget how it galled you when you had to bite your tongue against depredations and disdain? Will rage make the contempt sting less or make more tolerable the ignorance?”

She did not let him speak in reply. 

“And you, T’Challa,” she said, looking past Erik’s shoulder. Erik whirled around to see T’Challa standing behind him in a simple white shirt, looking just about as confused as he felt. “Do you think that it is enough to give charity from an exalted position? Do you deign to love the downtrodden and oppressed as one who has never tasted the lash or never lost his name? Do you preach forgiveness as one who has never known anything but humanity to those who the world has refused to allow peace?” 

T’Challa looked just about as irritated as Erik felt. He felt more sympathy for him than he had in a longass time. Damn, this goddess could talk. 

“I wasn’t your goddess originally,” she said. “Not for either of you. I was born long before there were people to sing about me. I did not always look like this. I was She-Who-Rends and then I split into a million different individual bodies, becoming domestic cats and panthers alike. You are two of my children, but the blood has thinned with age.” 

She smirked at them. 

“Between the two of you, we have centuries of struggle and glory. There is glory in your blood, Erik, and struggle in yours, T’Challa. It is within and because of you that there will be a renewal. That is what you both have missed, my children. You cannot solve things for the present. It is only in the future, and the promise of a future, that there is possibility.” 

She rose gracefully to her feet and hopped off the steps, looking like nothing more than a pretty housecat going back on her way. She took a few steps toward the edge of the grove and then she vanished. 

Erik’s body was returned to him. He hesitated for a moment and then decided, fuck it, and lunged for T’Challa. T’Challa, taken by surprise, was thrown back into the dirt and Erik was on top of him. 

“Fuck you, fuck you,” Erik said. “You think you can fucking own me? I ain’t your pickaninny.”

Erik’s hand wrapped against T’Challa’s throat and he squeezed, wondering if he was going to be able to kill him in whatever fucked up alternate dream-realm they were in. T’Challa’s skin felt warm and human under his palm, nothing like the cold black basalt of the statue. 

In a moment, T’Challa relaxed, letting his body go lax. His eyes were dark and calm, staring up into Erik’s face, looking for something. He wasn’t fighting back, even as Erik was trying to cut off his air. In surprise, Erik released him and shifted his grip down to T’Challa’s shoulders. 

“I’m not going to fight you,” T’Challa said, voice a little hoarse. “I’ve learned my lesson on that.”

Erik punched him in the eye. T’Challa let out a pained huff of air and then smirked. 

“You definitely pulled that one, cousin,” he said. “Remember, I have fought you before.” 

“You are the most annoying motherfucka alive,” Erik said. And then he leaned down and kissed him, hard and biting, with every bit of the rage he had pulled from the punch. 

After a moment, T’Challa kissed back, his hand going up to fist in Erik’s dreads. Erik had kissed people aggressively before, had sex that was near enough to fighting, but nothing had felt like this. This was kissing like fighting in the way that violence was able to give a man his power back. Fighting someone was a way to make them look at you, make them acknowledge that you were a person in the world they had to reckon with. This was a kiss like that, a kiss that demanded T’Challa look at Erik and see him. 

It made T’Challa moan and Erik wanted to eat it up and consume him. He let his mouth bite the soft skin on the underside of T’Challa’s skin, underneath the rasp of his beard, and lay biting marks down his neck. He sucked into the pulse point underneath T’Challa’s adam’s apple as if he could taste what made T’Challa himself. 

“Erik,” T’Challa said. “I think this is something she did.” 

“Not like I wasn’t thinking about it,” Erik murmured. “When I walked into that throne room and you were there sittin’ pretty, I was hoping I missed some Wakandan sex ritual.” 

That made T’Challa laugh, startled, and Erik found himself relishing the sound. Nonetheless, he pushed his hand down the back of the soft linen pants that T’Challa was wearing and squeezed his ass, hard. That chased the laughter from T’Challa’s throat and replaced it with a hiccupped gasp. Erik was hard, he could feel it pressed hot up against T’Challa’s hip, and he pulled T’Challa’s body into his own. 

“Guess I found it,” Erik whispered and even he could hear in it a panther’s purr. 

He could feel the scars on his arms rub against the fabric of T’Challa’s clothing. He pulled back to take off his own shirt and T’Challa scrambled to do the same. His chest was smooth and perfect; Erik leaned down to bite some marks into it, using his lower body to pin T’Challa’s legs. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Erik said into T’Challa’s skin. 

“Please do,” T’Challa said, but it wasn’t begging. He sounded a little like he was laughing. “Is that the way you’re going to prove yourself to me, instead of killing me?” 

“Damn right,” Erik said. “You’ll never be able to forget.” 

“You talk with great ambition,” T’Challa said. 

Erik pushed himself lower and licked at the base of T’Challa’s cock, right at his balls, just to hear the strangled noise he made. He reached out with his other hand, not even sure what he was looking for, and his fingers bumped a glass vial. Grabbing it, he brought it in and frowned, pulling back. T’Challa looked annoyed at being abandoned. 

“Huh,” he said, uncorking it and smelling. It had the scent of the heart-shaped herb. “Mind me sticking this up your ass?” 

T’Challa arched his hips up and spread his thighs. “As long as you get on with it, then you can use what you have to.” 

Erik smirked a little and slicked his fingers up, reaching down to press two to rub against the outside of T’Challa’s hole. He licked a little bit more at T’Challa’s cock and balls, enjoying the musky animal scent of him. 

He dipped his fingertip into T’Challa, just a little, before pulling it out and going back to rubbing his rim. 

“Get on with it,” T’Challa said, through gritted teeth. 

“‘Kay,” Erik said and then forced two of his fingers in, harsh and unrelenting. T’Challa’s back bowed and he cursed. “There, see? Giving you what you want.” 

“Americans,” T’Challa said, breathlessly, which made Erik fuck into him harder with his fingers. 

He moved his mouth farther down, pressing the flat of his tongue against the point where his fingers were entering T’Challa’s body. He could taste the herbal bitterness of the divinely inspired lube. He fucked T’Challa, moving his fingers fast and none-too-gently, seeing if he could get some more shocked little noises out of his throat. 

Soon enough, he pulled back. “I think you’re ready. ‘Least, I’m ready and we’re going with it.” 

He shoved his pants down around his own thighs and wrapped his hand around his own cock. His own desire, which had been made less important by his attempt to drive T’Challa crazy, came rushing back to his attention. 

Adjusting himself, he held his cock to T’Challa’s body and pressed the spongy head of it against T’Challa’s hole. He nudged him, teasing, until T’Challa reached up to grab Erik hard by the back of his neck, pulled him down and kissed him. With their mouths locked together, Erik shoved his hips forward and swallowed down the noise T’Challa made. 

They fucked, moving in reflected pleasure—it was not at all the cliche of their bodies becoming one, there were irreducibly two of them, two people moving together and pushing back on one another and making something last because there were two. Erik felt every inch of his skin where it pressed up against T’Challa’s, the warm human heat of him around his dick, and he knew himself because he could feel T’Challa underneath him. 

It didn’t take T’Challa long to come, his own hand jerking himself off, and Erik fucked up into him hard the whole way through it. He had not been unduly quiet, but his orgasm was silent and wide-eyed. Erik pulled back just enough to watch it, before letting his forehead fall into T’Challa’s neck and groaning as he spilled into him. 

“Fuck,” Erik said. “What the fuck.” 

“You say that a lot,” T’Challa said, a little rough, a little laughing. “You were more restrained before I killed you.” 

“Fuck you,” Erik said. Something around the edges was fond. 

Exhaustion suddenly dragged him down, had him slump on top of T’Challa’s body. He felt T’Challa’s fingers run up his arm, pressing softly at each of his bumpy scars. It was that which dragged him into sleep.

* * *

He woke up and his pants were sticky. The room still had the soft beeping of medical equipment, the faint smell of antiseptic, and the distinctive sterile white that even Wakandan facilities were appointed in. 

Erik sat up in the bed, eyes wide, and reached for his junk with his hand, only to be stymied by the cuffs. He didn’t need to touch himself to feel the distinctive way his penis was plastered to his underwear, though—he’d definitely jizzed his pants. It had been years since he’s had a wet dream and he’s certainly never had one so strange and distinctive. 

He had seen a lot of things in his time on this earth, enough that he was not willing to push this off as a fantasy yet. 

Especially not when he heard the door to the medical suite open abruptly. T’Challa came in, in sleep clothes himself, and stared at Erik. 

“Yeah, I ‘dreamed’ that too,” Erik said, fingers doing scare quotes as much as they could while cuffed to the sides of the bed. “Y’alls country is weird.” 

“It’s my country, now? Not yours?” T’Challa said. 

“Oh good, we practicing already,” Erik said. 

T’Challa went a little bit green. 

“I’ll get Shuri,” he said. “Maybe, uh. She can tell if anything—” 

He paused, stumped. 

“Planted?” Erik said. “Sprouted? I worked in a Home Depot once, I got lots of garden metaphors.” 

T’Challa rolled his eyes. Erik let himself fall back on the pillow and let his eyes close. He did not fall asleep, but underneath the sound of T’Challa murmuring into his kimoyo bead, he heard flutes, and rattles, and human voices raised in song.


End file.
